


the sparring problem

by emblems



Series: this dance of ours [2]
Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: F/M, Sparring, Unresolved Sexual Tension, it's very nearly wall sex but alas, so much UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-02
Updated: 2015-09-02
Packaged: 2018-04-18 14:53:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4709993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emblems/pseuds/emblems
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's one thing to objectively know Chrom’s proximity—it’s another to see it. To feel and hear and sense the way he seems to carry around a part of the sun, shining and burning and nourishing, so necessary but still so dangerous—</p><p>“Chrom,” she says, and she's unsure if it’s a question or a warning or the beginning of a plea she can't afford to finish. </p><p>[ or: how close can we get to post-sparring wall sex without actually including wall sex. alternatively: i used the word "heat" six times and i have no regrets. ]</p>
            </blockquote>





	the sparring problem

She knows from the get-go that this was a bad idea. Poor strategy, lacking anything resembling a tactical approach—

But, well. She could hardly let Chrom walk away after digging at her “rusty swordsmanship.” Not in front of half the Shepherds in the middle of the training grounds, where everyone was going through a training program she’d help to design herself.

No, to let such a slight go without comment or dispute would be to undermine her entire authority.

 _Out of practice_ , she repeats to herself, letting Chrom’s words roll through her mind and down to her fingertips. She lifts her sword in readiness.

Chrom meets her eyes with a smirk, giving his blade a few swings before  shifting into a stance she knows: the one where he gages the strength of his opponent before rushing in.

She waits.

And then, in an instant, he’s on her. She only just manages to shift into a blocking position.

He takes a step back, assessing her. “Sure you’re up for this?” The look in his eye tightens something in her chest, leaving her breathless for a moment before she remembers to inhale.

“Backing out of your challenge already?” she asks.

This time, she’s ready for his advance.

They go at it for several minutes, and more and more she begins to feel those two weeks she spent in council meetings and the map room; weeks spent inside instead of on the ground, facing off against Risen and Plegians alike.

Chrom has her beat on practice, and on instinct on top of that—the sword is an extension of his hand.

But she, at least, has her mind, and her knowledge of Chrom’s movements. She knows his weaknesses because she has to, to cover them, to compensate to make sure he comes back from each battle alive and in one piece. She knows from experience it's enough to keep him on his toes.

But she becomes distracted by the way he moves. It was one thing, to linger on the edge and see it from a distance. There, she was more objective, looked at him from a holistic point-of-view. There, it was about the training regimen, about progress and development. There, she focused on his technique, his stamina, his tactics and decision-making.

There wasn’t time for that in the ring.

The sun has baked the training grounds, creating an impenetrable haze; it slows her movements and dulls her senses, and makes thinking on her feet a tactical nightmare. It envelopes the pair of them, blotting out the outside world. She can’t tear her eyes from him, from the way his chest heaves, the sweat rolling down his neck, the glint in his eyes and the excitement coloring his cheeks.

Or is that only a product of the summer heat?

She’s long since foregone her cloak, and he his cape. Distantly, she recognizes they’ve drawn a crowd.

Objectively, she knows she’ll lose this fight. The only thing left is to draw it out as long as she can, to at least make it difficult for him.

To that end, she pulls out a move she’d usually save for the trickiest of Plegian men: kicking up a spray of dirt just as Chrom rushes her. It throws him off-balance just long enough to snag her foot between his ankles. He’s on the ground for only a moment, and she takes her opening, bringing the hilt of the sword down in a blow aimed for his head.

He catches her wrist with his free hand.

The smirk is all the warning she gets for what happens next. there’s a twist and a _thump_ and suddenly she’s on the ground, her sword knocked away and a triumphant lord sitting astride her torso, blade at her neck.

She can feel his legs holding her in place, down to the muscles contracting as he shifts ever-so-slightly. She can see the tension in the arm holding his sword, the way the brand is drawn tight across his skin. The hot summer day makes the smell of sweat and dirt so strong it’s unavoidable, sticking to her skin and in her throat.

If heat had a taste, it would be this.

She meets his eyes, and she goes still at the intensity of his expression: brows drawn, eyes dark with intent, and mouth open as he breathes harshly.

It’s a moment before she remembers to breathe.

“Do you yield?” he asks, voice a rasp as he struggles with his exertion.

Heat washes over her—a heat that has nothing to do with the noon sun.

She swallows and nods. “I yield,” she says, letting her head fall back and arms stretch out in surrender.

For a moment, he doesn’t move, and her heart does a strange stutter-step.

She’s opening her mouth to say something when Chrom finally shifts, getting to his feet before extending a hand down to her. She hesitates only a moment before taking it.

“I, uh,” he clears his throat. “I think we’ve taken up enough of Frederick’s time, don’t you?”

She blinks, then realizes—this had been impromptu, and they’d probably taken up an inordinate amount of time—

She turns sharply to find Frederick, who’s looking at them with lips pursed and brow furrowed. “My apologies, Frederick, I didn’t think it would go like this when I came down here—”

“I don’t think any of us did,” Vaike says, just loud enough to be heard.

Something in Vaike’s tone—something knowing, something smug—makes her flush, and she wonders just how red she can possibly get.

Frederick spares Vaike a baleful glare before clearing his throat. “Yes, well, I doubt I can classify that as time wasted,” he says. “It always does good for the morale when they can see their commander in action like this—especially against someone that can challenge him.”

She allows herself a small smile; there’s no such thing as false praise from Frederick.

In the distance, she can hear the bells chiming from the clock tower. Her eyes go wide as each _bong_ signals another hour passed. “Is it that time already?” she asks. “Chrom, we have to go, we’ll be late—”

“The council meeting isn’t for another thirty minutes—”

“I told you when I came down here we had matters to discuss prior,” she says, grasping his wrist and tugging. “Come on.”

Through some small miracle she manages to get him away from the training grounds and into the castle, and it’s only once they’re there she allows herself to relax a little.

“Hang on,” she says, “I just need—I need a moment."

She leans against a stone wall, letting its marginally cool surface eat away at the heat licking at her skin. Her eyes drift shut as she attempts to bring her body temperature down through sheer willpower.

“Are you all right?” Chrom asks.

“‘M fine,” she mutters, “just hot.”

“You’re red from top to bottom,” he says, voice low. His hand presses against her forehead. “You’re roasting.”

“Well, that’s to be expected,” she says, trying to ignore how close he is, the way warmth continues to emanate from him.

“Are you sure you’re all right? No pending heat exhaustion?”

She shakes her head and opens her eyes.

Immediately, she wishes she hadn’t, because it's one thing to objectively know Chrom’s proximity—it’s another to see it. To feel and hear and sense the way he seems to carry around a part of the sun, shining and burning and nourishing, so necessary but still so dangerous—

“Chrom,” she says, and she's unsure if it’s a question or a warning or the beginning of a plea she can't afford to finish.

“Robin,” he replies. He licks his lips.

The circumstances of their situation have never been more painfully apparent than they are at that moment, and they are as follows:

They are to be married.

No one _knows_ they are to be married.

There’s an entire council full of men nipping at Chrom’s heels to be wed, to produce an heir, to create an image of health and prosperity in Ylisse.

And here they are in a castle corridor panting like heat-addled adolescents.

He takes a step closer and Robin lets her breath come out in a whoosh.

Unbidden, images of the night after they defeated Gangrel play in her head. Chrom, flush with victory. Chrom’s tent, where they spent half the night talking about what was to come next. Chrom’s cot, where they fell asleep tangled up in each other.

 _We can’t_ , was the story of the evening. And so they’d set their desires aside.

They didn’t say anything about it the following day. There wasn’t time, and it wasn’t the place.

But the longing stayed. The urgency she felt when she was with him lingered, though it became a dull throb as the days went by.

Now, though, she feels it sharply, feels it under her skin and in the way her hands itch to touch his face. She feels it as sure as she feels the sweat rolling down her back and his breath on her face. 

“This is a bad idea,” she says, her voice thick. She makes herself focus on breathing.

“I disagree.” His hands shift, ghosting at the edge of her cloak.

“Chrom,” she insists. She meets his eyes and hopes she looks more resolute than she feels.

There is no room for mistakes; not at this stage, with the entire halidom still piecing itself back together. He knows this, and she knows he knows this. So she waits.

With a sigh, he takes a step back. 

A moment passes where they can only look at each other.

Then: “What a picture we’ll make at this meeting,” Chrom mutters, shaking his head.

The haze that swallowed them begins to dissipate, leaving only the stuffy air of the castle behind.

She takes a deep breath and runs a hand through her hair. “There’s nothing for it now,” she says. “We should go.”

He nods, and the space that develops between them as they walk is deliberate.

The council meeting, predictably, is unbearable.

She’s not sure if the way Chrom runs his foot up and down her leg makes it better or worse.

**Author's Note:**

> i've got at least one more story left for this series (a finale), maybe two (maybe another one set closer to the beginning of the storyline), so keep yer eyes peeled.
> 
> and i'm sorry i keep teasing i really am. know that it hurts me as much as it does anyone else.


End file.
